Issues

The Husband Tree

Devon Capizzi ♦

Summer 2021 ♦

Fiction

My daughter is working, early, in the yard. I hear her footsteps from my bedroom, my windows overlooking the teardrop of grass and the ring of hostas and ferns, the Japanese Maple on the very edge of my property. It’s been this way all summer. She’s left her job, moved…

Persona Poem of the Shakespearean Witchnurse in A Winter’s Tale

Elizabeth Upshur ♦

Summer 2021 ♦

Poetry

I think but of Apollo, his sunned visage bright as second winter stars to gaze upon, methinks my queen was his true equal a like as like to God enthrone- ed. O even as the fair and gentle Dian beside her too as sweet maiden ness can boast was she,…

Treebeard

Andrew K. Clark ♦

Summer 2021 ♦

Poetry

It now appears that certain trees lower and raise their branches, not only at nightfall or sunrise, but also with shorter periods, such as two hours. It’s as if they have an internal heartbeat. —The Scientific and Medical Network Journal, 2018. busy as we are we feel your longing…

This American Fife

Jake Maynard ♦

Spring 2021 ♦

Creative Nonfiction

The piano may do for love-sick girls who lace themselves to skeletons, and lunch on chalk, pickles and slate pencils. But give me the banjo. —Mark Twain In 2007, bluegrass banjoist Eddie Adcock did an ordinary thing at an extraordinary time. Robbed of his ability to make music due to involuntary…

In Conversation: Shawna Kay Rodenberg

Silas House ♦

Spring 2021 ♦

Interview

There’s a certain amount of defiance hovering between Shawna Kay Rodenberg’s words as she discusses Kin, her debut memoir slated for publication by Bloomsbury in June—and after spending time with her searching, resilient book, it is easy to understand why. Kin recounts her family’s exile from their native Eastern Kentucky…

Excerpt from ‘Kin: A Memoir’

Shawna Kay Rodenberg ♦

Spring 2021 ♦

Creative Nonfiction

Grand Marais, Minnesota, 1978-1979 Most mornings, the first sound I heard was either a mosquito, tinny in my ear, or the rusty springs of the rough-hewn door as it closed behind my father when he left to stoke the stoves in the other buildings or to wait tables in town.…

Old Woman at My Window

Elaine Neil Orr ♦

Spring 2021 ♦

Creative Nonfiction

It’s six a.m. on an April morning. I sit at my desk before the window, ready to write. The first thing I see are dogwood flowers. They appear suspended like lanterns over water. Eventually, tree branches come into view. I look down at my writing and when I look back…

Joshua 7:22 in the Ruins

Jessica Jewell ♦

Winter 2021 ♦

Poetry

The whole city was an ambush the summer before we met & I was disaster provisions. I lit fires up and down Meridian, breaking the law every time the moon disappointed me, tried tunneling home dirt by dew & then you were salve and I, a walking wound. I met…

Drive-In Movie During a Pandemic

Matthew Hawk ♦

Winter 2021 ♦

Poetry

Midweek midsummer night at the drive-in, only one other car ahead of us in line. A gowned man in mask and gloves scans our ticket with his handheld scanner, directs us to tune our car radio and follow signs straight ahead to our screen, where we watch Jurassic Park and…

Queers on the Oregon Trail

Matt Vekakis ♦

Winter 2021 ♦

Poetry

to Oregon I’m relentless: on holidays I pull at your shawl and beg you to play settler as the men down- stairs pray for our souls long before we understand what it means to be queers. even the room is magic: austere, New England white, snow-lined sill mapping the cylinder…